


Something Extraordinary

by Chierei



Category: Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (2020), Gotham (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, But more violent, Explicit Sexual Content, Gotham!Oswald meets BOP!Zsasz, M/M, Meet-Cute, Multiverse, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:34:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24903139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chierei/pseuds/Chierei
Summary: There is something special about Oswald Van Dahl, and Victor finds himself pulled into his orbit.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Victor Zsasz
Comments: 6
Kudos: 62





	Something Extraordinary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GokaiChange](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GokaiChange/gifts).



> Thank you to the lovely GokaiChange for tasking me with this idea!

Oswald didn’t know how he had gotten here. One moment, he had been in Arkham and tormented by that ginger clown, and the next, he was waking up with a headache behind a dumpster.

At first, he had thought that he had blacked out and then maybe drugged. Or perhaps Doctor Strange had messed with his head again. But it only took a few hours to dismiss both options. This felt too _real_.

Everywhere Oswald looked, all he could see was color. Splashes of pinks and yellows and blues across buildings and people, all of them merrily skipping through their days. It even smelled different—the sour scent of decay and trash replaced by heavy spices or overwhelming sweet perfumes.

This...other-Gotham was so far removed from his own. His Gotham had been dark streets and gray skies, trapped in a perpetual state of gloominess and fog. This other-Gotham was so—

Bright.

He hated it.

It had taken him a long time to acclimate himself and to accept that this was where he was stuck now, in this loud and bright and _different_ Gotham. The technology was so different, years and decades more advanced than what he had been used to, and Oswald had never been that great with it to start. If Ed had been stuck here with him, Oswald had no doubt he would have been able to soak it all in easily, but Oswald was alone.

As he usually was.

Oswald was just glad that his pickpocketing skill had not diminished in the years, and he learned to use his limp as a distraction. Humans naturally didn’t like to watch someone who they considered physically disabled—it made them uncomfortable, and Oswald used that to his advantage. When their eyes slid past Oswald, it was easy to slip his fingers into their pockets and re-emerge with his prize. It was enough of an income to afford to stay in a subpar motel with mold on the ceiling and that charged by the hour, but it was better than living on the streets.

And then he got to planning.

* * *

Victor didn’t like how much time Roman was spending with his new little songbird ever since she became his driver. More than that, he _hated_ it.

He knew that Roman didn’t mean anything about it, that there was nothing sexual in his interest, but he hated how he would look at her and not him, how he would praise her voice or her looks or her dress, and _he wouldn’t be looking at Victor_.

He had watched Roman as he gave her a standing ovation at the end of the last song. He could feel the pain of his nails digging into the flesh of his palm and forced himself to unclench his fist. He had been with Roman for years— _years_ —longer than that little bitch, but here she was, slouching around like she was the queen of fucking England just because she has a voice and a good high kick.

Victor shot a look back at Roman, who was still cooing over his little bird, brushing her hair off her shoulder and introducing her around to the table, and he grit his teeth.

He was tired—tired of watching Roman flirt and coo over others, too tired of watching him ignore Victor, watching Roman get so close to him and then back away. He needed to _get out_. He took off, planning to walk off his mood, smoke a cigarette or ten, and maybe slice his knife across someone’s throat.

Instead, he made it who-knows how many blocks away before the sky opened up and rain fell in heavy sheets. Sometimes he hated Gotham’s weather—sunny in one minute and then this the next. Victor cursed and scrambled toward the nearest doorway. He huddled under the overhang for a moment, considering. The rain could last two minutes or two hours, and there wasn’t a way to know. He sighed, lighting a cigarette as he thought about his options.

He could call a cab back to the club, but he was still too annoyed at Roman. He’d been gone over ten minutes, and he hadn’t received a single text or call. He couldn’t even go home when home was in a suite next to Roman’s and above the Black Mask Club.

He finally took a good look at where he was, noticing the blacked-out windows and the tasteful curve of neon above that scrawled _Adélie’s_ in a loopy font.

He hadn’t recognized the place—though that wasn’t unusual. Clubs and bars came and went in Gotham, and Victor didn’t care for them. He barely tolerated The Black Mask Club—always too loud with rich birds covered in too many diamonds and old men with cologne that smelled like the grave. He didn’t know if they were open or whether they were a bar or a strip club, but at this moment, he didn’t care.

He was surprised when he stepped inside and was met with the sight of smooth black walls, uplit with lights of varying shades of blue, and peppered with small tables, some separated by heavy velvet curtains for privacy.

The next thing Victor noticed was how quiet it was.

It was moderately busy, most tables and booths full of patrons, but it was different than the Black Mask Club. The patrons kept close to their party, and while he could hear their voices, it was never loud enough for him to hear.

It was jarring, after the bright lights of Gotham. Before Roman, he had been used to the dark corners of the world, the filthy little shadows full of gloom and secrets and so unlike Gotham with its larger-than-life characters.

This place felt like Before.

“Welcome to _Adélie’s_. Is there anything that I can do for you, sir?”

Victor didn’t startle—he was far too well trained for that—but he didn’t stop his reflexes from pulling out his knife and holding it up to the stranger’s throat.

The stranger met his eyes steadily, not flinching at the feeling of cold steel against his throat. He was pale, with a sharp nose and bright gray eyes that seemed to shift from blue to green in the light. Victor assessed him in a second—noting everything from leg brace to the deep plum of his tie and the irreverent tilt of his head. He looked almost bored, but Victor spied the barest interested tilt of his lips.

And that was how he met Oswald Van Dahl.

* * *

“Gin and tonic.”

Victor turned at the sound, the words and the sound of glass against a bartop. His eyes caught the glass first, with its quickly condensing exterior and the extra slices of lime, and then followed it up to the face.

Victor quirked his lips as he accepted it, keeping his eyes locked. He took a long draught and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Isn’t mixing drinks a little out of your pay grade?”

“For you?” Oswald answered as he wiped dry a glass and gave Victor a look from under his lashes. “Never.”

Victor hated how it made his skin tingle. People didn’t look at Victor that way—the first had been Roman, and Victor would follow him to the end of the world. Most people looked at him and saw a brute, scars, and graying hair, and they were scared of him.

And that’s how Victor had always liked it. He loved watching how people would avoid his eyes, scurry out from under his foot, how they’d cry if he brandished his knife, or beg for their lives.

But Oswald looked at Victor and saw the danger and was _amused_. Amused, at _Victor Zsasz_ , as though he was a lost puppy and not that assassin he was.

It was enough for Victor to return to _Adélie’s_ again and again.

“What brings you to my doorstep, Victor?” Oswald said. He made a vague gesture with one hand and without a word, one of his staff slunk in while two more hurried to clear the best table in the house—the one where someone could see every entrance and exit while barely turning their head.

The show of power made Victor’s blood run hot. It was part of the reason he had always been so attracted to Roman—the man had this sense of confidence and ease everywhere he went, like he could snap his fingers and everyone should part before him, and then people _did_.

But Oswald Van Dahl had all of that without the Sionis name hanging as a threat behind his words. But somehow, he always managed to look like he was looking down at everyone, making them feel small. It was intriguing.

And attractive.

And for all of Victor’s research—and his research was very thorough, at the small cost of a few fingers—it appeared as if the man had appeared out of thin air one day.

But the next thing anyone knew, he was suddenly head of the Falcone Crime Family after Carmine Falcone quietly ceded the seat to him. No one knew how or why, but Carmine had taken his daughter out of Gotham, and no one was left but Oswald to take over. There had been rumors of dissent among Falcone’s old capos, but they were just rumors—anyone who had truly spoken out seemed to have disappeared

And he had been slipping past everyone’s notice since—slowly building his base of power. The Falcone name had been half-worthless in the last decade since the rise of ‘masks,’ but this nobody had somehow been slowly and steadily amassing his people.

Victor knew he should probably be telling all of this to Roman—who had the habit of not noticing some things until they were almost on top of him—but he...didn’t. Maybe it was because he was slowly spending less and less time with Roman these last weeks, and maybe it was because it seemed like Roman didn’t even notice.

Either way, Victor found that he was spending more of his time watching this petite man, slim and skinny and so _fragile_ , but commanding his people with a look. He had all of the power and poise and strength of Roman without the physical bulk, and it made him all the more fascinating.

And Victor loved to take the things apart that fascinated him.

“So, my friend,” Oswald said as he took a seat. “What is troubling you today?”

“What makes you think something is bothering me?” Victor said, leaning back languidly in the booth.

Oswald raised an eyebrow, giving a pointed look to his half-empty glass.

Victor snorted, letting a smile play on his lips. “Fair point. Nothing new—just Roman being—” He waved a hand, not sure what he could say. There was a fine line between complaining to a friend and betraying his benefactor.

“Roman,” Oswald finished for him, accepting the glass of red wine from a server. He had a streak of purple in his hair, bright and shocking against the otherwise traditional prim and proper suit. It was just another part of the mystery of the man.

Oswald wasn’t a particularly common name. The only other Oswald that Victor had the pleasure of meeting had been the Penguin himself. And there were some superficial similarities between the two. Oswald, despite his small stature, was still several inches taller than the Penguin and less than half his size, even with the softening of his middle over the last few months. They shared similarities in aristocratic profile, but the Penguin’s trademark waddle was far different from the limp that Oswald suffered from. Still, it made an interesting comparison, with Oswald being at least two decades younger than the Penguin.

There was the sound of a shuffle that brought Victor out of his thoughts.

The stranger who had interrupted him stumbled toward them, blood splattered on his face and clothing. It wasn’t someone Victor recognized, but his companion obviously did.

Oswald watched, silent, as the man fell to his knees in front of them, one hand pressed against his shoulder that was holding a bloody cloth against a presumed wound. “What is it, Angel?” he said, lips pressed into a thin line and voice even.

A shiver went down Victor’s spine at the sound.

Angel—young, Hispanic, with golden-brown skin and two lip piercings—fought to catch his breath. “Sir,” he said, “there has been a situation.” He winced, and Victor watched as the red edges of his makeshift compress darkened.

Oswald’s eyes narrowed, and he snapped his fingers, catching the attention of his workers. He gave them a look and gestured, and in record time, the club was cleared out, leaving no one but staff and Victor.

“Explain,” Oswald said, setting down his glass of wine.

Angel flinched but hurried to speak. It was long-winded, but what Victor gleaned from it was that a drop had gone wrong. Or had gone right, depending on how you looked at it. Bobby Gazzo—a name that rang familiar to Victor though he couldn’t place a face—had tried to double-cross him, waged war against Oswald’s claim to the Falcone family. What had been meant to be an amiable exchange at the docks and pick-up of tariffs had turned into an ambush and declaration of war. Angel had been the only one out of five to make it out.

Oswald was silent for a long time.

Victor could feel the tension of everyone around him and grinned. The last time he had been lucky enough to be around when Oswald had gotten bad news, he had beaten the messenger with a candelabra. The time before, he had rewarded him generously. It was like a game of roulette to the staff—never knowing if Oswald would punish or reward them. But the reward was always enough that everyone was willing to try their luck.

The silence hung, just a beat too long, and Angel was shaking, both from blood loss and nerves. And then Oswald smiled. “Take Angel to the Doc and make sure he’s rewarded.”

No one moved, and Oswald’s lips turned down in annoyance. “ _Now_ ,” he said, loud and stern and with enough of a threat that there was a flurry of movement.

And Victor caught the motion out of the corner of his eye. Angel had struggled to his feet and then reached back, touching the bulge of where his gun had been tucked into his waistband, and Victor _knew_. He had drawn his own weapon almost instinctively. He didn’t have to look to know it had gone through the man’s hand, forcing him to drop his gun and it to go tumbling to the ground. It slid across the marble, until stopping at Oswald’s feet.

Victor had expected shock on Oswald’s face, but there was none of that, only a smirk as Angel cried out in pain, holding his mangled hand to his chest.

“Thank you, Victor,” he said, giving Victor a look that made his blood sing. He stood, motioning for two of his staff to pull Angel to his feet. He stepped closer, and despite being inches shorter than everyone in the room, he gave the distinct impression of looking down on everyone. “And you, Angel. I am very disappointed in you. I had hoped you’d be a bit smarter than this.”

Angel spat at the ground, glaring at Oswald. “You are a _freak_. Did you really think the Gazzo family would bow to you? You are nothing, just a little upstart who thinks that he—” he cut off with a scream.

Oswald had slipped a knife into his shoulder, almost too quick to be noticed, and then twisted it. The grin on his face was manic and full of nothing but pure entertainment. “I had hoped that you would have learned by now what happens when you try to cross me. After all, even Carmine tucked tail and ran.” Oswald cupped Angel’s cheek, wiping away a spot of blood in an almost tender way. “And I had high hopes that I wouldn’t have to kill you like I killed Sal. But, c'est la vie.” He pulled out the knife and then dragged it, slow and painful, across the man’s neck. Blood splatter out of the cut, spotting Oswald’s face and collar, and he watched, dispassionate, as the light faded from the other’s eyes.

His staff drug the body away, wordless, and another came to mop up the blood without a command. And Oswald turned to Victor, eyes dark. “Would you care to join me upstairs, Mr. Zsasz. It looks like I need to clean up, and we can discuss my gratitude.”

Victor followed, almost mechanically, pulled by the stunning creature before him and the sight and smell of fresh blood.

When the elevator doors opened, Victor barely took notice of the space beyond other than the classical elegance that he expected from Oswald, before he pressed the smaller man against the wall and kissed him.

He tasted like the red wine he had drunk earlier and the coppery tang of blood. His lips were deceptively soft, and he pressed himself closer, parting his lips to push his tongue deeper into the other.

Oswald kissed back, arching his neck and wrapping his arms around Victor’s neck and pulling.

Victor groaned, cupping his cheek with one rough, calloused hand and marveling at the soft, smooth skin under his fingertips.

He didn’t know when he had realized his attraction for the man. Perhaps it had always been there, or it had been slow-burning as his interest slowly waned from Roman and was taken over by this force of a man. But now that he could taste him, feel the bite of his teeth on his lip and the feeling of Italian silk under his touch, he couldn’t imagine not wanting this man with his entire being.

Oswald pulled away, and Victor whined, a low throaty sound that turned into a curse when Oswald licked a long stripe up his neck, right over a half-healed scar. He could feel the man’s smirk against his skin. “Pick me up, Victor,” he said, lips brushing his ear and then biting at the cartilage.

Victor hurried to obey, dropping his hands to cup Oswald’s ass into each big hand and lifted. Oswald’s weight was barely noticeable in his arms, and it made Victor growl, wondering if he’d be able to throw him over his shoulder next time, toss him around a little. He wondered if Oswald would let him.

Oswald wrapped his legs around his waist, and the position brought their groins together. Victor growled, pressing his partner against the wall to roll his hips to get more of that glorious friction.

Oswald hummed in approval, still nibbling at Victor’s ear. “And the bedroom is on the left.”

Victor carried Oswald to the bedroom, kicking open the door impatiently so he could dump Oswald onto the bed. He could see all that pale skin and mussed hair against the dark sheets, and it was more erotic than he had imagined. He moved to crawl over him, intending to press him into the mattress and continue tasting him when Oswald stopped him with a finger to the chest.

“Strip,” he said with half-lidded eyes.

Victor’s cock twitched at the command, and he wasted no time unbuttoning his shirt with quick, nimble fingers. He could feel Oswald’s eyes on him, tracing every scar and licking his lips as he watched. Victor stripped off his belt, dropping it to the floor before shimmying out of his pants and underwear at the same time. His cock was hard, undeniably so, and Victor fisted it with his hand and gave it a languid stroke as he watched Oswald watch him. “Satisfied?” he said, glib.

Oswald took a deliberately long once-over on him, expression challenging, before answering. “It’ll do nicely.”

He wasted no more time crawling over Oswald, tugging at his clothes. Oswald made no move to help him, just rolled his hips against Victor’s, tracing shapes on his skin with his tongue, or scraping his nails down Victor’s back. It was infuriating, the teasing, and it made Victor just want him more.

He finally shucked the last of Oswald’s clothing to the side and allowed himself a long look at him. His skin was so pale that every scar stood out against his skin. There were knife wounds aplenty along with a few bullet wounds—some mended more professionally than others. His leg was a mess of scars and twisted tendons, and Victor found the almost grotesque shape of the limb beautiful.

He pressed a kiss to his lips before running his tongue down Oswald’s body, lathing at his nipples and pushing his tongue into his belly button before he reached his goal.

Oswald’s cock was lean, a pleasing shape against the neatly trimmed thatch of black curls. He smelled like soap and musk, and Victor licked a stripe from the root to tip.

The noise Oswald made was intoxicating, and Victor wasted no time swallowing him down. He tasted salty-sweet, and he bobbed his head in a rough rhythm while his fingers quested further. He rolled Oswald’s testicles gently between his fingers before slipping his hand further down until he could press a dry finger into his hole.

Oswald moaned, one hand tangled in Victor's hair as he pressed and his legs wrapped around his neck, tacitly begging for more.

Victor hummed, with Oswald deep in his throat, as he thrust his fingertip out in shallow thrust. Oswald’s thighs were squeezing him closer, and it only made him want more.

“Stop.”

Victor obeyed, leaning back on his haunches to look at the debauched man below him. Despite everything, Victor still felt like he was kneeling before a king.

And this king was looking at him and no one else.

“I want to come with your cock in me. Can you do that for me, Victor?” Oswald said, arching his back and languidly pushing hair out of his eyes.

Victor nodded.

The pleased smile he got made his cock ache. “Good. Top drawer,” he said, tilting his head to the side to indicate where.

Victor scrambled up, opening the top drawer of the nightstand to find a bottle of lubricant and a string of condoms. He tossed the condoms onto the bed before hastily resuming his position.

Oswald had scooted further up the bed, so he was lounging in the multitude of pillows and was trailing his fingers, tipped with black polish, along his cock.

Victor poured a healthy amount of lube onto his hand and pressed one long finger into Oswald as he kissed him.

Oswald sighed into the kiss, sucking on Victor’s tongue while he spread his legs eagerly.

He was tight, tighter than anyone Victor had in a long time though most of his previous dalliances had been with prostitutes who wouldn’t turn away anyone for enough coin. Victor wondered when the last time Oswald had allowed someone to fuck him, and the idea that he was special, that not just anyone got to stick their cock in him, made him bite his lip to keep himself from coming.

Victor forced himself to be patient, waiting until Oswald was rutting back against his fingers before he rolled on the condom and drizzled lube directly onto his cock. He spread it along with one hand before hooking his elbows under Oswald’s knees. He aimed his cock against the twitching hole, eyes focused as he pushed in slowly.

The sight of Oswald’s body yielding to him, coupled with the vice-like grip around his cock was almost enough to make him come.

And the noise Oswald was making, the arch of his back and the throaty mewl of pain and pleasure, was all the better.

He moved slowly at first, slowly sheathing himself until Oswald had taken him all. “Fuck,” Victor said, words deep and jumbled as he tried to think of anything other than now coming like a teenager, “fuck you feel good.”

Oswald clenched, and Victor groaned. This man was going to kill him.

“I thought you were going to fuck me, Victor.” Oswald, despite being split open on his cock and his hair a mess and the way his cock was hard and leaking between them, still sounded imperious, almost _bored_.

It was infuriating and delicious and made Victor want to wipe that smirk off his face.

He pulled out until just the head of his cock was inside before slamming his hips forward. The motion made Oswald moan, loud, and Victor gave him no time to rest before he started a brutal pace.

He held the man open, a hand on each knee, as he thrust in and out of the hot, willing body. He could feel the sweat dripping down his back and the ache of muscles, but he was determined to show this man what he could do—how good Victor could be.

Oswald moaned at each thrust, eyes half-closed as he pushed against every thrust into him. His cock bounced with his thrusts, and Victor fisted it, stroking it roughly in time.

Oswald came with a scream, arching his back as he came over Victor’s hand and his stomach, the long streaks of pearlescent come coating them both.

Victor moved to pull out, only to be stopped by Oswald wrapping his legs around his waist.

“No,” Oswald said, out of breath, but his eyes were practically glowing as he stared up at Victor. “I want you to come inside me, understand?”

Victor’s cock twitched at the order, and he nodded. He pulled out, ignoring the groan Oswald made at the movement, to turn Oswald onto his stomach. He repositioned himself on all fours over the man before sliding back into him.

Oswald groaned but pushed back against him.

Victor growled, pressing one hand down on Oswald’s shoulder before rocking his hips. He braced his knees apart and fucked Oswald as he had never fucked another man before. He pictured that haughty smirk, the challenge in his eyes, the way he was looking at Victor and no one else, and he came, biting down on Oswald’s shoulder, marking him.

Oswald made a small, content moan, as Victor pulled out, rolling over to discard the condom over the side of the bed. He was out of breath, and he might have reopened one of his half-healed cuts, but he had never felt better.

“Good boy,” Oswald said, rolling on his side to brush his hand across Victor’s lips.

Victor shivered and closed his eyes.

Yes, there was something extraordinary about Oswald Van Dahl.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you again to the lovely GokaiChange for giving me this prompt! They asked for BOP!Zsasz and Gotham!Oswald meeting since Zsasz wants to give attention and Oswald wants to receive some. This is quite a bit longer than expected, but I got carried away with writing porn. 
> 
> As always, please feel to follow me on [Tumblr](http://chierei.tumblr.com) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Chierrei) if you want to keep up to date with what's going on with me or just to chat!
> 
> If you enjoyed, please take a moment to leave a comment to let me know! <3


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